That walk from the front door to the kitchen – what, five seconds? Six or seven at the outside.
The Garda trails unwillingly in my wake, shoes squeaking on the linoleum.
This exquisite hiatus heralds the passing from one realm to another, a defining moment. Is it wrong to savour it?
I will him to hold his tongue, to leave me unknowing for a moment longer.
… seven… eight
“Tell me,” I say, turning.
He flushes dull red; he’s too young for this.
“There was this accident… an overloaded trailer… I’m very sorry…”
And there… welcome to my new life.
I decided to create a new response to my old prompt. Les Chiens de Guerre was a thin tale, looking back. Not that this has much fat on it either. 🙂 Thanks to Rochelle for her continued leadership of Friday Fictioneers. Click the froggies to see more.